


Trouble Shared

by Alakven, Iforgotmyformerusername



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Fanart, Gen, Parental Fred Thursday, So we gave him one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19371397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alakven/pseuds/Alakven, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iforgotmyformerusername/pseuds/Iforgotmyformerusername
Summary: His fingers halt for a second before they touch the bottle, a sentence tingled with concern and wariness stilling the automatic movement."Drink is a good servant Morse, but a lousy master. I’ve seen too many go down that way."The memory causes a flicker of doubt, but then Morse huffs, lifting the bottle upwards. Surely one glass won’t kill him. And whatever Thursday thought, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.In which Morse finally talks about his feelings. Eventually.Set directly after Trove and includes art!





	Trouble Shared

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Alakven  
> Story by Iforgotmyformerusername

Morse knew he was letting himself slip. Had known, for some while. He didn’t need to see Strange’s concerned eyes or hear the reprimand in Thursday’s voice to know he was going down a path that couldn’t possibly lead anywhere good.

The Frida Yelland case was over now, solved just last night, and now all there was left to do was paperwork. A lot of paperwork. Morse convinced himself that it was because of that he took a glass or two more every evening, that he bought a large one in the pub every now and then instead of the usual pint. Paperwork didn’t need as much brainpower as an ongoing case so it was fine, really, he could afford his head to be a little less clear.

It definitely had nothing to do with what he was feeling when completely sober.

He could handle it fine.

* * *

 

The mood at the nick was elevated, light.

As always after a successfully solved case the station seemed to breath for the first time in a couple of days, with the tension of the search for suspects and clues gone the men were laughing quicker and louder. There was still enough to do of course, crime didn’t rest just because they solved one case, but muggings and thefts were often a lot less time sensitive and complex. The amount of paperwork did dampen the mood a little, but work was work and most just hoped something big wouldn’t come rolling in soon so they’d have plenty of time finishing up the last bits of this one.

Horrible as it was, Morse found himself actually hoping for a case he could put his mind on, a puzzle he could solve and lose himself in. And as always when this thought crossed his mind he immediately rebuked himself, he could handle a little discomfort if it meant someone else wasn’t murdered or attacked.

He wasn't even halfway through the pile of “to do” papers on his desk when he got interrupted by a light tap on his shoulder.

“Want to grab something to eat?” DI Thursday is shrugging on his coat, hat already on his head. Morse glanced at the clock. It’s lunchtime already, the last hours have flown by without him noticing.

He put the pen down and got up. “Yeah why not.”

The rest of the station is fanning out as well, some just coming back from their lunchbreak, some heading out, and others still typing frantically on their typewriters. The constable would’ve rather continued working as well, but he knows Thursday will nag him about it if he doesn’t at least eat something and he doesn’t feel like taking up that particular argument again.

They made their way down to the usual pub, lucky to find an empty table outside in the sun. It’s a beautiful day, much like the last have been. Sunny and warm enough to be outside with just an overcoat.

“What’s on your mind then?” Thursday asked when they’ve settled, both with a pint of beer.

Morse looked up at the unexpected question. “Nothing much, why?”

“You’ve been staring at the table for a solid two minutes now.” He nodded at the package in front of him. “And you haven’t touched your food at all.”

Morse glanced down at the sandwiches he had gotten from Mrs. Thursday. After returning from County and showing up at their doorstep a few pounds lighter Win had apparently decided Morse could use a fit of feeding up and had started to make sandwiches for him as well. Morse appreciated the gesture, but had felt it was totally unnecessary. Win had insisted however, despite his complaints, and he hadn’t wanted to be rude. It was luncheon meat today, Morse knows.

“Just thinking about.. things” He eventually answered, gesturing vaguely with his hand as if that would magically provide him with an explanation.

Of course, Thursday wasn’t impressed. “You alright then? Now that the case is over you could take some time to sort things out, there’s no shame in that. It’s been a rough couple of days, with the case and you getting beaten up in London and all.”

But Morse is already shaking his head, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he went home a little earlier today. It probably wouldn’t do his liver any good. “I’m fine sir, really, just zoned out is all.”

It reminded him of the conversation they had barely a few days earlier, when he was out here with Jakes and Thursday as well and the Inspector had asked him the same question. Did he really look that miserable? He could almost constantly feel the heavy hands of sadness pulling at his chest, trying to drag it down to the ground, but he hadn't thought it'd be visible like that.

With one swift movement he took a gulp of his beer, not in the mood for feelings right now.

Thursday watched him with keen eyes, seemingly searching for the truth on his bagman’s face. He only dropped it when Morse started to unpack the sandwiches out of goodwill, giving him a lopsided smile.

“Say,” Thursday began, shifting to an easier topic, “have I told you about that case we had with those so called ‘vampire hunters’ while you were at County?”

Grateful for the change in mood, Morse spend the rest of his lunchbreak listening to the story of how a group of men had started threatening people they had decided looked like vampires, until they accidently really set someone on fire. The story was strange enough to keep him intrigued and by the time it was time to return to the nick he had unconsciously finished both sandwiches, earning him a slight grin from the Inspector.

 

By the end of the day he had made pretty decent progress on the paperwork, the pile of papers to be filled in and handled already lessened by three quarters. Morse had almost forgotten what its like to not have to do everyone else’s work on top of his own, as used to be the custom at County. Before he knows it the night rolls in and he is walking up the stairs to his flat again.

He fished out his keys and opened the door to the flat, kicking it closed behind him and walking straight to the turntable on his desk. Choosing an aria wasn’t too hard, and while the soft notes of the opening tune drift into the room he dropped himself into the chair, already reaching for the bottle on the desk. His fingers halt for a second before they touch the bottle, a sentence tingled with concern and wariness stilling the automatic movement.

_Drink is a good servant Morse, but a lousy master. I’ve seen too many go down that way._

The memory causes a flicker of doubt, but then Morse huffed, lifting the bottle upwards. Surely one glass won’t kill him. And whatever Thursday thought, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

It was only after the numbing effect of the third glass had set in that he started to believe it himself.

* * *

 

He was a disappointment to his dad, he knew that already, so why did the old man feel the need to repeat it to him now? There he stood, right in front of him with his finger pointing at him, a scowl on his face. Morse couldn’t hear what he was saying but he knew it all the same.

“You’re a disgrace.” The man said. “Coppers are nothing more than rats, you should’ve worked harder.”

“Thrown your future away for some bird.”

“If only you were more like your sister.”

Behind him stood Gwen, looking down upon him with a face that seemed to say they should’ve never taken him in, that he was a liability, a mistake.

Morse sqeeuzed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands, but their taunts echoed within his brain, the imagine of their faces never leaving his vision.

“I know,” he wanted to say, “I know you think so, but your opinion means nothing to me anymore.” He wanted it to mean nothing, he wished he didn’t feel the shame burning in him, the waves of sadness crashing down upon him. He wished and he wished, but if wishing could make this all stop it would've done so many years ago.

Then his fathers face turned into that of Thursday, and Morse was relieved, would’ve gone towards him if he hadn’t seen the same scowl his father bore upon the feathers of the DI.

“Sir?” He asked tentatively.

“Can’t stay off the booze can you?” The image of Thursday said. “I expected better of you Morse.” Morse could only shake his head, afraid and ashamed.

“Here I do everything in my power to help, and you’re just throwing it away. You’re not worth the effort.”

To his embarrassment Morse could feel the tears starting to leak on his cheeks. If possible the scowl of Thursday deepened even further. It looked like he wanted to say something else but right as he did a shot rang out. Morse could already feel the pain in his hip, the blood flowing out of him. He had been shot, he had been-

With a cry he started awake, his hands flying to his leg, feeling for a wound. Only when he couldn’t find one did he really notice his surroundings. He was still in his flat, sitting in the chair. The glass he had been holding laid in shards at his feet.

Ah. So that was what he had heard. Not a gun, just the breaking of glass.

He buried his head in his hands, breathing deeply and waiting for his racing heart to settle. This was exactly why he hadn’t planned on sleeping tonight. Apparently the music and the dark of the flat had managed to lure him in after all.

Once his hands stopped shaking so much he got up, careful not to step into the glass, and got to the kitchen to splash cold water in his face. There was no use in moving himself to the bed now, he knew he wouldn’t get any more rest tonight.

He dried his face on a nearby towel and shuffled over to the turntable to turn it off. The music had already come to an end long ago and he didn’t think the neighbours would much appreciate it if he put another one on. Morse glanced at the clock. It was nearly a quarter to one in the morning, suggesting he had gotten almost 3 hours of sleep. It would have to do.

He opened the window and breathed in the fresh air, hoping to chase the last remnants of fear and sorrow off his mind. Below him a sole car drove past, headlights briefly illuminating the rest of the street.

Despite the heartbreak and all the horrors he has seen in the city, Morse really liked Oxford. It felt like home. The thick walls and high towers of Oxford University, the green parks and the muddy water of the Thames that brought a cooling breeze to those walking past it on the warmest days of the year. He had never thought he’d feel about this place like that, thinking that after everything that had happened during his years in the city there would be a bitter taint to the place. But the months spend on leave in County made him painfully aware of the fact that Oxford was the first place since the death of his mother he really looked forward to returning to. He had supposed then, that once he was back at work at Cowley Station, everything would turn back to how it used to be before his father died and Bright send him on leave.

It was a foolish thought, he mused now, returning to the kitchen to grab himself a new glass and a dustpan with brush to clean up the shards of the previous one. It wasn’t about the place at all. It was about him, _he_ was the one who had changed. He was constantly on edge, startled by any sudden noise and thrown into panic whenever he was convinced that a piece of metal glinting in the sun was the barrel of a gun. His hip was healed properly enough to allow him to walk without a limp, but the nagging pain was back as soon as he broke into a run or jumped down a ledge.

But the worst of all was a deep rooted sadness that threatened to knock him out cold and leave him lying on the ground of his flat for days. It was his father’s death, but it wasn’t. He never had enough contact with the man to grieve for the loss, his father dying changed nothing about his day to day life and there was hardly any warmth for him to miss, but there was undeniably something it had stirred up.

Morse hadn’t dared to dig deeply enough to really find out what that was, afraid of what he’d find. Better to take another drink and let the alcohol dull his senses, that at least was a feeling he was familiar with.

* * *

 

“One single shot to the temple from what appears to be close range, no obvious signs of a struggle. Apart from perhaps one with his own mind that is.”

Morse stared pointedly at the wall across the room, trying his hardest to ignore the smell of blood. “Suicide then?” He asked the pathologist kneeling down next on the ground, examining the body of a somewhat stocky man.

“That is for you to decide, but first glance does suggest such an action. Time of death between 10 and 12 last night.” Max DeBryn got up and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Shall we say 3 o’clock? And don’t look so troubled, suicide is an awful matter but it does happen you know. Not every death is inherently a suspicious one.”

“I’d rather know I examined every possibility than look back and know I assumed the wrong things.”

“As suits a Detective Constable. Still, I wouldn’t expect too much excitement from this fellow, it might turn out to be more mundane than you’d like.”

Morse shot him a wry smile and dared a glance at the man on the floor. Lying on his back in front of the couch, a big red hole in the side of his head and the gun still in his hand. It did seem like suicide, but Morse had learned not to take things at face value. They would have to wait for the autopsy report first.

With another nod to doctor DeBryn he headed outside, not wanting to stay there longer than necessary. It was the mailman who had found the body, spotted him through the window while doing his rounds. Morse located the older man talking to a WPC and walked towards the pair, deciding he would get the man’s statement first.

* * *

 

Thursday loved it when they could successfully close a case. The murderer behind bars and the family and friends of the victim finally able to move on.

Thursday loved it a lot less when he entered his office the next day and was reminded of all the allowances and statements that had to be formally written -something they didn’t take the time for when the case was still ongoing. And now Morse had come up to him with the news that they might have a new case on their hands. If his suspicions turned out to be true that is, but Thursday had long learned not to speak too lowly about those.

A knock on the door made him look up and when the face of his bagman appeared in the doorway he gestured for him to come in. Speak of the devil. “Found something new then, have you?”

“The victims name was Larry Porter, sir, 56 years old. His wife passed away three years ago, but he still has a son and a daughter, both of whom are married.”

“They been notified I presume?”

Morse nodded. “The daughter, Rose, claims Porter showed no signs of depression or suicidal thoughts at all sir.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the first to hide what he was going through, it might not have come to this if he had.” There was definitely a silent message in that sentence, aimed at the lanky detective in front of him. _Ask for help,_ Thursday silently pleaded, _don’t try to find comradeship in drink, it won’t help you._

It wasn’t hard to see the lad was struggling, the bags under his eyes were as dark as he was thin. Still, he refused any help at all and that was what worried the Inspector most of all. He wanted to help him back on his feet, but Thursday’s hands were tied if Morse didn’t let him.

The underlying message in his words seemed completely lost on his bagman however, and he wonders why he even thought it could get through.

“But wouldn’t you say that you’d hide it from everyone then, and not just your daughter? Porter’s son, Markus, says his father’s mental health has been rapidly declining since the death of his wife and that he had been talking about suicide more often lately. Markus hadn’t actually thought he’d go through with it though.”

“So he trusted his son more with his health problems than his daughter, that’s not so strange is it?”

Morse shifted on his feet, and Thursday could already predict where this was going, there was no such thing as a natural death according to the lad.

“I think there’s something not entirely right about this sir.” He shot a look at the Inspector to see if he was going to disagree, but Thursday indulged him. “With your permission I’d like to talk to other friends and relatives of Porter, to hear what they saw.”

Thursday stifled a sigh. He didn’t want to shoot down Morse’s ideas, but sometimes a suicide was just that, and investigating it could just be a waste of time better spend on more pressing matters. “Wait for the autopsy report first.” He compromised, “If there’s anything strange in there you can go and talk to the others on the morrow, but if everything is as suspected we’re going to treat it like any other suicide.”

Morse pursed his lips, but nodded. “Alright, thank you sir.”

Thursday watched him leave and then turned back to his own files. Paperwork, he decided, he could do without.

* * *

 

To say Morse was shocked when he heard it might be murder after all would be a lie. It added many more questions to the situation, but Morse didn’t mind going out of his way to find the answers. It answered some others as well.

Yesterday the autopsy report came back and revealed that Porter hadn’t fired the gun himself. There was no gunshot residue found on the victim’s hands, and although stippling was present -a sign of a close range shot- there were no substances from the gunshot found in the wound on the victim’s temple itself, indicating that the barrel of the gun had been more than a feet away from the temple when the gun had been fired. So either Porter had held the gun at arm’s length away when firing, or someone else had pulled the trigger.

Morse had been up all night, drinking and thinking about the case, but there were simply too many unknown factors to figure it all out yet. By the time he had reached that conclusion, it was already past 5 in the morning and the alcohol had yet to lull him to sleep. It wasn’t worth trying to sleep by then anymore and he had softly turned on a little music and finished the crossword from yesterday’s paper, waiting for the sun to fully rise.

He was now beginning to feel the effects of the building lack of sleep however, having to blink every now and then to chase away the fog that was blurring the border between sidewalk and driveway. It was nothing he couldn’t handle though, he would just have to get a few hours more of shut-eye tonight.

Morse stepped though the door to Cowley Police Station and settled behind his desk, hanging his coat over the back of his chair. He had spend the entire morning and beginning of the afternoon talking to the colleagues and friends of Larry Porter.

Some had described him as more moody or downcast after the death of his wife, but none really believed him to be depressed. What’s more, they all agreed that over the past few years, Porter was visibly getting better and was learning how to cope with his loss. The only one who hadn’t thought that was Markus, Porter’s son. That could of course be because Porter confided more in his son, just like Thursday had suggested, but Morse doubted it. It would mean Porter had gotten better and better at hiding his feelings, which was of course possible, but to be able to completely fool everyone around you? That would be an impressive feat. It was far more likely that Markus had either misunderstood things or was straight up lying to them.

Unfortunately, the only one who could answer that question, Markus himself, had conveniently gone missing yesterday evening. He could’ve just as easily confessed, Morse thought, resting his chin on his hand. They were all on the lookout for him of course, but if the man had some sense he would be long gone by now. Even if he had nothing to do with the murder itself he was definitely hiding something, Morse could hardly believe his disappearance was a coincidence. They could only hope that he wouldn’t turn up dead, like his father.

“Figured out where our prime suspect is then have you? Or were you just wandering about in dreamland?” Jakes snide remarks from his desk across the room were the last thing Morse needed right now. He didn’t even grace it with a reply.

“You talked to the daughter right? Rosa?” He asked instead. “Did she know anything about the whereabouts of her brother?”

The Detective Sergeant took a good few seconds before he answered, as if wondering whether to indulge the Constable or not.

“She didn’t know,” He said eventually, blowing out the smoke from his ever present cigarette. “Said she hadn’t seen him since that morning.”

“And she had no idea where he might’ve gone?”

Jakes furrowed his brow. “I believe I should be asking _you_ -“ Whatever Jakes was going to say was interrupted by a PC barging into the room.

“I had the gents from traffic on the line.” The man said, “They’ve found Porter near London, they’re bringing him in now.”

Morse stood up quickly, this was great, they were bound to get some answers out of him. The room started to become really blurry now however, and he clumsily grasped the side of the desk to keep himself upright. He shouldn’t have gotten up so fast.

Gravity easily won the battle with his tired mind and he got pulled down under, dimly noticing he took the chair with him in his descend before everything turned to black.

 

Seated in his office Thursday heard the crash before he saw it. He peeked his head out the door to see what the ruckus was about when he saw Morse lying on the ground, unconscious. Worry immediately spiked and with large strides he made his way to his bagman’s side, searching him over for unseen injuries or wounds. Jakes had already knelt down next to his colleague, lifting a slender wrist to check for a pulse.

“Just fainted most likely.” He said.

That relieved the most of Thursday’s worries, and the Inspector pressed a hand against the lad’s forehead. “Not a fever.” He murmured before turning to Jakes and grabbing the coat that had fallen off the chair. “What happened? Did you see him fall?”

The sergeant nodded, watching as Thursday folded the coat and laid it under Morse’s head for comfort. “We’ve just been told that Porter was located and arrested sir, nothing too fancy. He stood up, stared blindly ahead for a second or so, and down he went.”

The PC who had brought the news spoke up, “Would you like me to call for someone sir?”

“No that’s alright, he’ll come round soon.” Thursday recognized these types of fainting spells well, back in the war soldiers would collapse from exhaustion every now and then and even Win had taken a tumble once or twice after a day of hard work and too little time for food and rest. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if one of those reasons were also the cause of Morse’s collapse now. The bloody fool. He would have a word with him about this very soon, no doubt about that.

The lad was already beginning to wake up, eyelids twitching and brows furrowing.

"Jakes, why don't you go get him a glass of water?" Jakes pressed his lips together at the request, but got up and headed for the cantina without comment.

Morse blinked a few times and Thursday saw him scan the room as memories of the fall undoubtedly returned. The Inspector stopped him with a hand on his shoulder when Morse moved to sit up. "Easy does it lad. Keep your head down for a second, don't want you fainting on us again."

The constable closed his eyes in what Thursday guesses was shame. "Sorry sir." His voice was little more than a whisper. "Shouldn't have gotten up so fast."

"What you should’ve done is take better care of yourself, then this could’ve been avoided." Morse opened his eyes again and looked at him with an expression Thursday couldn't place but which still tugged painfully at his heartstrings. He sighed and set his frustration aside for later, this was neither place nor time for a lecture.

"Think you can slowly try to get up?"

Morse nodded once. "I'll manage."

The response lacked the confidence Thursday had hoped to hear, but he helped him upright and then back on the chair he had retrieved from the ground. By the time he was seated and well Jakes had returned with the water, from which Morse took some slow sips. Thursday had hardly thought it possible but slumped down in the chair his bagman looked even more miserable than before.

He turned to the sergeant, "Jakes, can you handle Porter when they bring him in here? Put him in one of the cells and let him sweat for a bit, I'll drop Morse off home and then we'll question him together."

Jakes dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Sir.”

“Really sir, that isn’t necessary, I’m already feeling better.”

“Yeah, and my uncle’s a cat.”

 

The drive to Morse’s flat was silent, both occupied by their own thoughts and worries. When they arrived Thursday turned the car off and stepped out of it on the pavement.

“You don’t have to..." Morse started, gesturing upwards to the flat.

“I know, but I want to.” The Inspector wasn’t just going to leave him standing outside, not while the lad still looked as white as a sheet.

He followed him up the stairs and into a little living room that consisted of an overfull bookcase, a simple desk with a chair, and more empty bottles than Thursday cared for. He didn’t know why he was surprised, really, he knew how much Morse relied on alcohol throughout the day, why would it be any different at his home? Still, he couldn’t help the little pang of disappointment and worry at the sight of it.

Morse seemed to notice the mess as well and was already moving to put the most obvious of bottles away. At least he had the dignity to feel ashamed about it, Thursday thought.

“You’re shaking.” He noted when watching the constable fiddle with the locking mechanism on the window before swinging it wide open.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me Morse, you can’t really expect me to believe everything’s fine and dandy.” Thursday’s voice was clipped, he was starting to get tired of the avoiding behaviour of the constable every time this topic was touched on.

Morse pointedly kept staring out of the window. “I can handle it myself, is all I’m saying.”

“You can handle it- Morse, you just passed out after doing nothing more but stand up, I would not call that ‘being able to handle it’.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen okay?!” The heat in Morse’s voice surprised both of them and they stared at each other in shock for a good two seconds.

Good, thought Thursday then, let those feelings out, who knew how long he had been sitting on all this pent-up frustration. But the moment of emotion was quickly gone, the crack in demeanour fixed and a stone wall safely pulled up in its place again.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Maybe you would sleep better if you didn’t drink all of this at night.” He gestured to the empty bottles around the room, wondering how much time it had taken to finish all of them. “Your dependence on alcohol is worrying Morse.”

For a moment he looked as if someone had slapped him across the face, but before Thursday could ask what that was about, the mask of indifference had taken its place again.

“I’m not an alcoholic sir.”

“Well you damn right show the signs of it.”

“I can handle this fine!”

“That’s what you keep saying but I’m not seeing anything of it Morse, all I’m seeing is maybe half a dozen of empty bottles and a constable who is too tired to stay upright! You’re going to end up in some ditch at the side of the road if you keep this up!” He was trying to refrain from shouting, but now his own frustration was getting the overhand.

Morse scoffed, “I am not- This doesn’t concern you at all, why do you keep trying to interfere?!”

“What am I supposed to do then, watch you destroy yourself piece by piece until there’s hardly anything left? Keep hoping you’ll ask for help and just ignore the matter when you don’t?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what you should do, if I need help I’ll ask for it!”

“No Morse, you clearly won’t. You just choose to turn a blind eye on whatever is going on because it’s easier than facing it head-on, but guess what? Wish it away as you like, this won’t magically disappear on its own!”

Morse stared at him with a strange mix of anger and surprise. Thursday had hit the nail on the head then.

“Why do you even care?”

Ah, the one-million dollar question. Thursday had known there was an entire layer of self-depreciation under all of this unsolved mess, but hearing it still hit him harder than expected.

“Of course I care,” he was careful to leave the anger out of his voice this time, and Morse as well had a more defeated than defiant look to him now. “You’re a good lad and a smart copper. But the road you’re walking now will leave you with nothing good, that I can tell you. And I know it’s damn near impossible to face all of this by yourself, there’s a reason you’ve been avoiding it so long, losing yourself in booze and work.”

Morse slumped down in the chair next to the desk, running a hand over his face, eyes weary and downcast. The conversation was clearly taking its toll on the young man and Thursday almost regretted having it now. Almost. But the lad was exhausted and the Inspector knew he wouldn’t get any more out of him today, he already counted it a win that he hadn’t gotten another fierce denial.

“Look,” he started, “I don’t want to see you at the station tomorrow alright? You take the day off and get some proper rest for once. I mean it.” He added when Morse opened his mouth to protest. “And keep it down with the booze.”

Throwing a last stern look in his direction -the one that always had the most effect on his own kids- he left the flat with mixed feelings, not at all in the state of mind to question a suspect now. He knew that there wasn’t anything he could say to Morse that he hadn’t already though. The only thing he could do was hope at least something of what he said had gotten through for once.

* * *

 

As soon as Thursday had left Morse put his music on as loud as he dared. He stared at the crossword in front of him for a good ten minutes in the hopes of passing the time, but in the end he just couldn’t focus on the words.

The fainting spell and argument with Thursday thereafter had left him exhausted, but if there’s anything he absolutely wanted to avoid right now it was sleeping. He would feel too lazy for sleeping in the middle of the day anyway.

If only he could attend the questioning of Markus Porter, he would’ve had something to keep his mind on. He appreciated Thursday’s concern, he really did, but there was absolutely nothing wrong with- No, he sighed, he could say that as much as he wanted to but he couldn’t lie to himself, he knew Thursday’s concerns weren’t completely unfounded. But to admit that out loud, to ask for help of all things… Just the idea itself already filled him with shame.

He couldn’t do that, he wouldn’t. The Inspector had seemed sincere in his wish to help him, but Morse suspected that was probably out of some misplaced sense of duty rather than anything else. He had said he cared, but…

Morse groaned, he did not want to deal with this right now. He turned the music on a little louder. If the neighbours were annoyed by it they would just have to come and tell him. Tea would help him settle down, he decided, filling the kettle with water and putting it on the fire. Tea with a drop of brandy, that wouldn’t hurt.

As he stood to pour the brandy in the cup he realised what he was doing. Did he really put alcohol in all of his beverages nowadays? Is that really what this had come to? The words of the Inspector danced across his mind again. But he wasn’t an alcoholic, really, he wasn’t. He looked down at the cup in his hand and swiftly emptied it above the sink, filling it with nothing but tea this time. See? No problem.

But the tea tasted bland and the music became nothing more than loud background noise until he turned it off with a hasty flick. Everything felt off and he couldn’t grasp why he felt both agitated and tired at the same time. Was it really just the frustration from not being able to work?

Eventually the urge became bigger than the shame accompanying it and he reached for the bottle of whiskey that he had put out of sight when Thursday insisted on following him in. There simply wasn’t anything else that he could do right now, he told himself. He was supposed to get a few hours of shut-eye and this was the best way to get that. A compromise of sorts.

The burning taste of the alcohol did indeed sooth his nerves a little, but it didn’t dampen his frustration with himself. If only it grew, leaving him wondering when a simple puzzle and his favourite record had stopped being able to calm him down and when a bottle had become the substitute. He loathed the fact that Thursday might be right about this.

Having enough of this cat and mouse play with his own feelings he got up and shrugged on his coat. Being in the flat clearly wasn’t helping, he did not fancy risking another collapse out in the open but anything was better than staying here, wondering what to do. He needed to get the frustration out of the way first.

He would probably be skinned alive by the Inspector if he went back to the nick now, so he turned into a different direction. Not having a goal or a destination in mind, Morse just walked down the streets in a brisk pace, allowing his thoughts to roam free for once. 

There have been many people in his life that applauded how sporting was THE way of relaxing, but Morse had always took it with a grain of salt. Even when some of his friends started rowing during his college years he had waved their invitations to come and try it out away. Sure, he had to keep his stamina up for the odd chase after a suspect, but apart from that he didn’t see the sense of it. Now however, he could begin to understand what they had meant. Walking around the neighbourhood could hardly be compared to rowing, but after a good time he could feel the frustration ebbing away and his thoughts unravelling a bit.

He went over the events of the past year, the case with Mason Gull, getting shot, his father dying and his subsequent leave to Cowley. There was no denying that it had been an eventful year, more so than he had suspected when he first decided to join the police. He didn’t regret his decision to do detective work though. It wasn’t college, but it kept him on his toes.

Oxford was beautiful by night, but held many gems at day as well. The popular places and the quiet ones, the richer houses and those for who had a little less to spend. The schools were out already so the playgrounds were full of children laughing and playing and enthusiastically telling each other about their day. It gave Morse a little bit of his sense of duty back. It felt good knowing he was helping to keep these streets safe. Well, when he was allowed to work on the case that is.

The next turn led him from the park to a busier street. The shops stood closer upon each other here and although no rush hour, people were walking hither and yon with their supplies, their dogs or their family. Losing himself in the crowd didn't sound like that much of a bad idea. That is, until someone called him from the other side of the road, effectively ruining his plans of walking through unseen.

“Morse?”

He turned around to see Thursday of all people looking at him in confusion from across the road, a heavy looking bag in one hand.

“What are you doing here?" The Inspector asked as he made his way towards him. "Not out to solve cases I hope?”

The ghost of a smile traced the constable's lips. “Not this time no, just out for a stroll actually, getting a bit of fresh air. What about you sir, I thought you'd go and interview Markus Porter?”

“We already did as a matter of a fact. Win asked me to pop by the store to get some taters on my way back.” He held the bag up to show him a few dozen potatoes inside.

“Is it that late already?” Morse glanced at his watch. It was nearing the start of the evening, he had wandered outside for longer than he had thought. “How did it go, the interview?”

The levelling gaze of the Inspector fell on him and Morse suddenly hoped the man wouldn't wait to tell him until he was officially on duty again. He had, after all, told him not to do anything work related only a few hours ago. Luckily Thursday deemed the news important enough to not let him wait.

“He confessed.”

“He confessed?” Asked Morse incredulously. “To what, murder?”

Thursday eyed the people on the streets walking past the pair. “Might not want to do this here, come on.”

They made their way down the street to a quieter side of the park, a chest high railing between them and the riverbank of the Thames. There were hardly any people up here, most having either just returned from work or already busy with the preparations for dinner. Behind them Morse could hear a little boy complaining to his mom that he didn’t want to home yet, playing outside was way more fun than waiting for dinner to be ready after all.

“He had wanted to run away, Markus. Go to London and lay low, when he started suspecting we were treating it as murder rather than suicide.” Thursday said, folding his arms on the railing and looking out at a pair of rowing boats sliding across the river.

“And he sincerely believed that that we wouldn’t find him there?”

“He seemed to have his bets placed on the assumption that we wouldn’t figure out it was him who murdered his father. Moving away was just a ‘back-up plan’, as he called it.” The Inspector shook his head. “It seems to have never crossed his mind that it might be slightly suspicious if the last person to see the victim alive would suddenly decide to move out of town, without any notice.”

Morse huffed. You’d say that if you planned on murdering someone, you would think it through a little better than that. “Did he say why he did it?”

“Money.” The contempt was clear in Thursday's voice. “His father wouldn’t let him loan any so he decided he would move things along a bit faster and get his inheritance a little earlier. It appears he has a betting problem, he lost quite a bit recently.”

“Has his sister been notified?”

“Oh yeah, wasn’t too happy about it though, but who could blame her? Finding out your brother killed your father just for his money. It’s a nasty business, but one we come across one too many times.”

That it was indeed. Morse couldn’t fathom how awful it must be to have a loved one ripped from you so suddenly, especially if the one responsible was family or a good friend as well. It was sometimes better to not think about that side of the story too much.

“So that's that then." Another case successfully solved, though without him being there to witness it this time.

"That's that."

Time to get back to the routine inquiries of thefts and burglaries again, he supposed. Well, it was definitely better than sitting ducks in his flat by himself.

He'd soon have to go back there now, survive another night devoid of sleeping. It wasn't like he had any other choice, he could hardly walk mindlessly around town until sunrise.

There was of course that one other option, but it was one he loathed to think of; he sure as hell wasn't ready to talk about this entire mess. Didn't think he ever would be for that matter. Still, turning back to the small space filled with bottles of alcohol and despair did not strike him as pleasant either, and the only thing he could think of that he hadn't tried yet was to speak his thoughts, see if it would indeed help, as so many people claimed.

But no, he dismissed the idea. He’d rather hide away in his flat, alone. That was so much easier, there was no way he’d get anything out of it but shame and an awkward tension after all.

Right?

The silence was stretching and Morse was dimly aware of the fact that Thursday would have to return home soon to prevent Mrs. Thursday from worrying about him being late. If he was going to say something, he would have to do it now.

So he jumped in before he could change his mind.

“Sir?”

“Hm?”

“You were right.”

At this Thursday turned to look at him, eyebrows rising in a silent question.

“About me,” Morse clarified, heart pounding pathetically loud in his chest. “I’m not fine.”

When it stayed quiet he risked a glance at the DI, but the condemnation he had feared to see wasn’t present at all. Only surprise, concern, and maybe even the tiniest hint of relief. Morse looked down quickly.

“Tell me.” Is all Thursday said. And it’s all the incentive Morse needed.

“My father’s death is affecting me more than I had thought it would.” He started. “We weren’t close at all and I hardly had any contact with him, but his passing still hits me hard. I figured it would go away in time, but the mindless work and empty insults at County didn’t really help. Needing something to keep my mind off things, I, well...”

“You turned to the bottle.” Thursday finished for him.

“Yeah.” The familiar shame was creeping up on him again and he continued quickly, fearing he would get cold feet and stop talking if he thought too hard about it.

“But it isn’t just my father’s death that won’t let me go. You were right that day, at the pub, getting shot did leave its traces. It still does. I can’t help but feel like it’s been holding me back for far too long, both this and the death of my father.” Frustration with himself was quickly bubbling up again and he wrung his hands together, suppressing the urge to throw them up in the air. “I just don’t understand _why_. I should’ve gotten over it months ago.”

Thursday regarded him for a moment and just when Morse started to think he has said too much, that he did nothing but embarrass himself, Thursday spoke up. “It’s damn right annoying I wager, but you’ve got to let it run its course, get your sense of safety back. Beating yourself up over it is not going to help you do that. Talking about it might just, when it happens, get it out of your system for once.”

The Inspector turned, sharing out at the glistening water in front of them, listening to the sound of the children still playing in the playground a bit further down the road. “As for your father, maybe it isn’t the man as he was that you miss, maybe it’s the relationship you could’ve had, wanted to have, that you miss. You never got to experience any warmth from him and when he died he took every chance of you still getting that with him.”

Morse’s initial thought was to shake his head, deny that he could still feel that way, that he could possibly be that naïve when he already knew the man would never change. But the tears prickling behind his eyes and the sudden heaviness of his heart told of a different story. Was that the truth then? Did he after all these years really still hold hope his father might change and give him a fraction of the kindness he had so desperately longed for as a teenager?

He couldn’t help but scoff. “Why would I still be keeping onto that hope? That’s..” Childish, foolish, _pathetic_.

“Perfectly understandable, that’s what it is.”

Morse looked up at Thursday in disbelief but the latter cut him off before he could argue. “Knowing you’re not likely to get it doesn’t suddenly get rid of the closeness you longed for. Especially coming from your parents.”

Morse shook his head again, not trusting his voice enough for an answer. It sounded overemotional and immature, and he would’ve fiercely denied it if someone else would’ve told him this. But coming from Fred Thursday he nearly believed it, nearly believed that it was actually okay to feel like this. He rubbed with his hand over his chest, just above his heart as if it would take away the ache inside.

From across the water the rowers were still shouting at each other, urging each other to keep going. Urging _him_ to keep going, it almost felt like.

“I used to convince myself that whatever he did or said, he meant well and that he acted on what he thought was best.” He started, quietly, as if talking to himself. “With Gwen I knew I shouldn’t bother, I wasn’t her child and she would never see me as anything but a liability. But with my father I actually thought I still had a chance, if only I worked hard enough. Make him proud.” Trying to blink the tears away did nothing but allow one to fall down his cheek. Morse wiped it away quickly, useless as though it was when more followed in its trail.

“Sorry sir,” he sniffed, turning his head away in shame. He should’ve just gone back to the flat, this was a mistake. “I didn’t mean to get emotional about it.”

“That’s quite alright lad,” came Thursday’s surprisingly soft voice. “Better to let it all out now. I’d rather see you like this than drinking it all away.”

Through the tears Morse huffed a laugh. At least drinking it away didn’t leave him feeling so rotten. 

He took a shaky breath then, willing his voice not to crack. “I thought I would stop caring after I moved out,” he said, “but I guess you’re right about that, the ache has never gone away. Faded, yes, but never gone. Not really.”

“You’ve never properly dealt with it, just kept pushing it down and pretending it didn’t hurt anymore. It’ll keep popping up until you do.”

Morse shot him what must’ve passed for a smile but was brought out of balance by the tears still falling down his face. “Pretending has always been easier though.”

Thursday seemed to understand him all too well. “In the short run maybe, but one day you’ll reach your limit and then you’re in real deep trouble.”

The constable closed his eyes and sighed. “I know.”

And he did. This wasn’t the first issue he tried to ignore. It had started in his teenage years and had been his way of coping for all those years. After Susan he had tried to push his feelings away as well, only rarely talking about it with someone. It hadn’t gotten him far that time either, but neither had he figured out what did help, never once brave enough to ask for help from someone else.

And it _was_ scary, Morse would be lying if he said his palms weren’t sweaty or if his heart wasn’t still racing, but he could feel the heavy weight on his shoulders unpack bit by bit. Trouble shared, he supposed.

He gave Thursday a smile. “Thanks.” He said, meaning it with all his heart.

The Inspector smiled as well, seeming to consider something for a moment. “Ah bugger it, come here.” He then said, pulling Morse in for a hug.

For a moment Morse just stood there, taken aback by the sudden action. Then he reciprocated it, the warm arms and smell of tobacco comforting in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You know you can always come to me right, no need for pretending here.”

“Thank you.” Morse said as they pulled apart and he wiped away the remaining tears. “Thank you.”

The heavy stone on his chest was falling apart piece by piece and he could breathe a little freer. This is what he had missed all these years, he realised. A sense of belonging, a place to go to when things got bad. Someone he could trust and who trusted him. It didn’t fix everything at once, that simply wasn’t possible, but it gave him that one spark of hope he needed. Just the simple feeling of not being alone was worth so much.

He smiled sadly. “Wish I could’ve heard this when I was 16.”

Thursday squeezed his shoulder gently. “You deserved to hear it back then as well.”

Did he though? Somewhere deep down Morse was still convinced that he was the one at fault, that he could’ve prevented it if only he had been more like Joycie. If he looked back on it from a distance however, he could see what Thursday saw: just a young boy desperate for some love, and who could blame that?

“Thank you.” Morse repeated.

“Anytime lad.” Thursday nodded once and ran a hand through his hair, no doubt also both relieved and exhausted by the conversation. “Are you ready to head back? You’re welcome to stay for dinner with us if you’d like, we’ve got enough potatoes for sure.” He picked up the bag where he had dropped it beside him and looked at it with a frown. “I think I bought too many anyway.” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t, really, I don’t want to impose.” It sounded absolutely lovely to not have to return to his flat straight away, there’s no denying that, but Morse felt like he had asked up enough of their time already. “Tell Mrs. Thursday I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

“You could tell her yourself. It’s no trouble really, Win’ll love the extra company. You can help me peel the taters if that makes you feel any better.”

Morse laughed at that. “Ah, you sure that isn’t the real reason you want me to join?” He joked.

“I knew you’d make a fine detective.” Thursday was grinning as well. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alcoholism is a very real and very persistent problem. It usually stems from bigger, sometimes unknown, issues that are easier to ignore than to face. But getting help for this is not as impossible as it may seem. This first big thing you can do, for this and any other issue you may be dealing with, is to reach out to someone you trust. It doesn't have to be this long talk about every single thing ever, just letting them know you're struggling with something is already a huge first step. It isn't easy, not at all, but it is worth it in the end.  
> \---  
> We hope you enjoyed this as much as we did creating it! Take care of yourselves, and leave a little comment if you feel like it :)


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